


A Captain's Holiday

by medusine



Category: Black Sails, Monkey Island
Genre: Beach Holidays, Canon Era, M/M, Monkey Island-typical anachronisms, Non-Consensual Touching, Skinny Dipping, nothing really dark but i'm mentioning it all the same, pre-show AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 11:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17120900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: Gates decides that Flint needs to take a break in an inn on the beach - whether Flint wants to or not. Silver, one of the employees, is told to keep the Captain happy, and endeavours to do so.





	A Captain's Holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Magnetism_bind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/gifts).



> This fanfic is for the Silverflint Holiday Cheer, and when I read my giftee's letter to Santa, all I could think of was The Curse of Monkey Island (an old video game) and its beach resort. You absolutely don't need to know the game or have played it to read this fanfic, I just used elements of it as inspiration for Plunder Island (however I highly recommend these games as they're pure zany piratey fun). I know it's not quite what you asked, magnetism_bind, but I hope this is fun anyhow! Happy holidays!

Plunder Island was perhaps the most interesting place John Silver had landed on in his years of aimless drifting around the West Indies. Most of the island was taken up by lush forests brimming with wild chicken, but the small town of Puerto Pollo and its sandy beaches were very popular with sailors. Pirates, to be exact. They usually showed up after a particularly good haul, looking for the delightful – and often expensive – experience promised by Plunder Island.

Silver wasn't particularly keen on the smelly drunken pirates who swarmed Puerto Pollo, gorging themselves on rum and chicken drumsticks at the tavern, crashing about the streets, and putting on outrageous performances in the old governor's house, now known as the playhouse. But, all things considered, the job he did now wasn't the worst he'd ever had, despite the proximity of said pirates.

He was cleaning glasses at the bar, which stood by the beach under a canopy palm fronds, when he saw two men approach. One of them had a red beard and a permanent snarl curling his lip. He was being half pushed and half dragged by the other, a portly bald man with a long-suffering air.

“Where the fuck have you brought me?”

“Somewhere where you can wind down for a few days,” the bald man said. “Eat, drink, be merry and all that.”

“We can't stop now, Hal!” Silver couldn't help but notice that the angry man's face was particularly handsome, even contorted with rage. “You know as well as I do that if we can just find that schedule–”

A shiver went all the way down Silver's belly and right to his groin when the man noticed Silver's presence and stared right at him. Silver's body had no right to react the way it did under a pirate's withering glare. In fact, his legs were already straining to run far away and let the barkeep take care of them, but his cock – well, what it wanted to do was another matter entirely.

“And you _–_ ” The bald man gave his friend a hefty shove in the shoulder, and Silver was finally able to tear his eyes away from that angry green gaze. “–know as well as I do that if the men don't have some fun here for a while, you'll have a mutiny on your hands, Captain! We've been working them to the bone with precious little to show for it.”

Silver was keenly aware that he should be anywhere but overhearing these two. These were obviously ship matters, and the angry captain looked just like the kind of paranoid bastard who'd get rid of anyone that might try to sell information to a competitor.

“And it's Christmastime, for fuck's sake,” the bald man – likely this captain's quartermaster – continued. “Let them have some rest!”

“ _Fine_ , Jesus Christ!” the captain snarled. “Now tell me what the hell this is!”

“This is the Brimstone Club.”

“A gentlemen's club? Are you shitting me?”

“Don't be daft! There aren't exactly any gentlemen on this island. It's a club where captains and their selected crew can enjoy some quiet time, a drink, and some company if they so desire. You'll see, the accommodation's nice, and you'll be far from the rowdy men that get your back up.”

The captain scowled. The quartermaster merely smirked back at him, as though daring him to argue further. Silver watched on tenterhooks, torn between the certainty that this particular pirate captain would be nothing but trouble, and the irrational hope that he'd actually get to spend some time closer to this fascinating man.

“You? Are you the barkeep?” the captain finally snapped at Silver. It took all of Silver's resolve for him to plaster on a charming grin rather than give in to the urge to run.

“I'm his assistant, sir. What strikes your fancy today?”

The man, who'd been so haughty and poised until then, actually blushed. Then his cheek twitched, his lip rose in a snarl and his face went hard and angry again.

“Peace and quiet,” the captain bit out. He turned to his quartermaster. “I'll be on the fucking beach, then, if anyone needs me.”

“You enjoy yourself, Jimmy,” the quartermaster called after him. The captain's shoulder tensed, perhaps at the familiarity of that pet name, but he strode off towards a clump of palm trees without another word.

The bald man heaved a great sigh and stepped towards Silver, placing a bag of coins onto the table. Their jingle made Silver's heart sing. It sang even louder when he opened the bag to find it was filled with golden doubloons. It was worth much more than a few days in the club usually cost, and Silver would happily skim the excess off for himself if he had a chance.

“All right lad, you get him one of your quietest rooms, keep him fed and watered for a couple of days, and there'll be more where that came from.”

Well, perhaps this captain _would_ be worth the trouble, after all. Silver grinned at the quartermaster. “You have my word I'll take care of your captain, sir. May I ask which is your ship?”

The man gave a smile as sharp as a dagger. “The _Walrus_. That's Captain Flint.”

Silver stood petrified, mouth agape. The bald man walked away, and Silver found himself staring at the back of his head. A tattoo of an eye stared back at him. A red haired man and a man with an eye tattoo. How hadn't he realised earlier? They were practically legends, terrors of the sea, the cruellest of pirates. Yet again, Silver considered running.

It was easy to avoid Captain Flint at first. Silver set up a room for him in one of the private huts on the beach, a round construction of wood and palm fronds. He made up the bed with fresh linens, placed a bowl of fruit and a jug of water on the table, made sure there were candles, and generally fussed until he couldn't find anything that justified him staying in the little hut a moment longer.

Once that was done, Silver spent a whole hour serving drinks at the bar, debating with himself. On the one hand, Captain Flint had required peace. On the other, it was the club's tradition to bring their guests drinks and he'd been paid to do so. Besides, Flint needed to be told where his rooms were. Yet Silver dawdled, both afraid and excited to approach their new guest.

When Silver finally made up his mind and carried a drink to the terrible and terrifying Captain Flint, he found Flint lying under a palm tree in nothing but his shirt and breeches, waves lapping at his bare feet. Silver couldn't help noticing the shirt was unfastened, revealing a strong chest peppered with coppery curls, sprinkled with thousands of freckles. Flint, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice Silver approaching; he was deeply absorbed in a book. He didn't look threatening. If anything, he looked like an exhausted man who was finally allowing himself some rest and comfort.

“Excuse me, Captain Flint?”

Flint squinted up at him from his book, clearly annoyed.

“Your rooms have been set up in a hut at the bottom of the beach. That one, you see?” Silver pointed it out.

Flint glanced at it and gave a nod and a grunt. “Fine.”

“May I offer you some refreshments?”

“The fuck is that thing?” Flint grumbled, glaring at the glass Silver was holding.

“It's our official drink at the Brimstone Club. Rum and orange.”

“Are those feathers sticking out of it?”

There was indeed an arrangement of bright red and iridescent black feathers protruding from the top of the elegant wine glass. Silver had never felt silly explaining this drink until then; most pirates were impressed with the colourful flourish the feathers brought to their drink. Now, though, Silver wished the ground would just swallow him up.

“Uh, yes. As you may know, there are wild chicken everywhere on the island, and the Club's owner thought their plumage was very fetching… and… well, now we decorate our drinks with them.”

Flint scoffed and shook his head, but he reached for the glass all the same. Silver's knees wobbled when his fingers brushed against Flint's, and the same shudder as earlier rocked him to the core when their eyes met. Fuck. Silver stood motionless above Captain Flint, who stared back at him, his eyes both wary and intense.

“You! Silver!”

Both Silver and Flint gave a start as the angry voice rose from the bar. The glass landed in the sand with a dull thud; Silver wasn't sure which of them had dropped it. They'd both swiftly moved away from each other when the barkeep had called for him.

“You come here at once, Silver!” the barkeep snarled.

“My apologies for that,” Silver said with a forced grin, heart aflutter, picking up the sandy glass and soggy feathers. “I'll bring you another one.”

“'s fine, don't bother,” Flint muttered, rolling over onto his side and going back to his book. Silver could have sworn Flint's cheeks had flushed again, but perhaps that was just the sun.

After that, Silver left Flint well alone. He caught glimpses of him wandering the beach, exploring his hut, dozing under the trees. The sun set, and when Flint finally came to the bar for food, Silver was too busy waiting on the couple dozen guests to have time to even acknowledge his presence. His fingers ached from arranging feathers into pretty little plumes for the drinks, and his cheeks ached from the false smiles he graced upon men who could cut him down for the smallest mistake.

“Oh cabin booooy~” a voice called out, and Silver cringed. It was Stanley, one of Captain Threepwood's friends. He was a slimy bastard in an oversized hat, and while he wasn't unattractive, Silver knew better than to trust anyone whose charming smile and voice masked cold, calculating eyes. Stanley always insisted on calling Silver a cabin boy, likely in the hopes that Silver would be as pliable as the cabin boys in the lewd stories pirates told each at night.

“What can I do for you, Mr Stanley?” Silver asked, all smiles.

Stanley crooked a finger, signalling Silver to come closer. A glare from the barkeep told Silver that he'd better do as he was told; Threepwood and his crew were regulars. With a sigh, Silver approached. Stanley wrapped a strong hand around his wrist – Silver did his best not to recoil – and drew Silver close, breathing into his ear.

“How about some company in my hut tonight, boy?”

“I'm sure I can procure someone who will please you, sir,” Silver said politely.

“Oh, I'm sure you can,” Stanley drawled with a smirk. “Do you know, you have the most exquisite–”

“Mr Silver?”

The voice cut through the laughter, the chatter, the bickering, creating an unusual hush in the establishment. Flint was leaning at the bar, staring down Silver– no. Staring down _Stanley_ with a haughty, unimpressed glare.

“I'd like that drink now, if you aren't too busy.”

“Please excuse me.” Stanley's grip had grown slack under Flint's sharp gaze, and Silver took the chance to slip out of his grip and hurry to the bar.

Flint watched quietly as Silver prepared the drink, fingers shaking a little after this narrow escape. He'd likely have been able to talk his way out of it, but it was no less disquieting.

“And one for yourself,” Flint said.

“Beg pardon?” Silver asked, confused.

“You look like you need a drink too.”

Silver wondered if he'd escaped Charybdis only to be devoured by Scylla, if Flint was trying to ply him with drinks. On the other hand, drinking with Flint was a much better prospect than being asked to join Stanley in his hut, so he gave a polite smile and nod, and started making a drink for himself – light on the rum.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Flint looked as though he wasn't sure what to say next, as though he didn't know how to speak to someone when he wasn't giving an order or making a scathing comment. Somehow, Silver found this endearing.

“Here's your drink,” Silver said as he put the glass down before Flint.

“I see the feathers are popular,” Flint said, gesturing to the rest of the bar. Some of the more inebriated guests had planted the feathers in their hats, their lapels, and even their hair.

“Ah, yes, they make for a nice fashion statement.”

Flint rolled his eyes and sipped at his drink. “At least this isn't half bad.”

“Why thank you, Captain,” Silver said with a grin, taking a swig from his own glass.

Silver cleaned glasses for a while, still standing near Captain Flint. Stanley hadn't dared to pester him further and soon left, likely to find company in Porto Pollo. Good fucking riddance.

“Do the customers bother you a lot?” Flint asked suddenly. He'd apparently noticed that Silver was surveying the room for Stanley's whereabouts.

“No more than I can handle.”

Flint gave a nod and went back to nursing his drink. The light of the torches made Flint's beard glint like fire, casting shadows on the sharp angles of his face, turning his eyes to molten gold. Fuck, he was handsome. Handsome, and much kinder than Silver would have ever expected.

A drunken man's elbow caught Flint on the back of the neck as he tottered past him, and Silver heard the quiet hiss Flint let out at the touch.

“Are you all right, Captain?” Silver asked, moving a little closer to him. “I think your neck got scorched by the sun today.”

Flint snorted, lips curling into a small smile. “Did it? Must be Monday.”

Silver grinned, leaning over the bar to get a little closer still. “You're a brave man to endure such pain in order to live in these climes.”

A twitch under Flint's eye suggested Silver had somehow touched a nerve, but Flint merely gulped down the rest of his drink and gave a shrug. “You get used to it.”

“I know of an oil that might bring some relief,” Silver said. “One of our regulars, we call him Pallido Domingo, swears by it.”

“Pallido?” Flint smirked.

“He's much paler than you,” Silver said, grinning back, his stomach fluttering delightfully at the amusement on Flint's face. “If you like, I could bring you–”

They were interrupted by raised, drunken voices.

“You? Don't make me laugh! You fight like a dairy farmer!”

“Well how appropriate! You fight like a cow!”

“Oh Jesus,” Silver groaned as the argument grew louder in the bar and several more people got involved. He turned to Flint. “Well, that signals the bar-fight portion of the night. I wouldn't hang around, Captain, unless you're tempted by a black eye.”

“Will you be all right?”

Silver beamed at him. He couldn't remember when anyone had asked him that before. “I'll be fine, Captain. I know how to handle them.”

Flint gave a nod and slipped away from the bar right before a pirate slapped another one across the face with a whole roast chicken.

The night drew on, and several more stupid fights broke out, but Silver didn't mind. Flint filled his head now. It was foolish, he knew. He was a dangerous, bloodthirsty pirate. Everyone was terrified of him – but Silver wasn't. He was captivated, intoxicated by the man. He moved through the bar, serving food and drink, righting chairs, calming rowdy pirates, as though he were walking through a dream.

When every guest had either left or gone to sleep at the bar, Silver was finally allowed to slip away. He procured a bottle of Pallido's oil and made his way to Flint's hut. It was late, he knew. He didn't intend to awaken him, just to leave the bottle at the door. He was only providing good service, after all.

A splash in the nearby sea caught Silver's attention. The moon was bright in the sky, casting a cool blue light onto pale skin. It was Flint, swimming in the dark waters. From the glimpse of flesh Silver caught as Flint dove into the waves, he seemed to be entirely naked. Christ.

Heart hammering, Silver walked up to the shore. He should have left. He could still leave. But then Flint surfaced again and went still, staring at him, water lapping around his shoulders and chest. They watched each other in silence.

“May I join you?” Silver asked, finally.

Flint's brow creased a little. “You don't have to.” His voice was quiet, barely audible over the swell of the waves.

“I know,” Silver said, his heartbeat pulsing through his entire body. “But I– I'd like to.”

For a while, Flint said nothing. Silver saw his Adam's apple bob hard under the skin of his throat. “All right, then.”

Silver undressed slowly as Flint continued swimming in the glistening waves, only casting brief glances at him. He wondered if he'd read it right, Flint's gaze, the blushing, the halting attempts at conversation. Was he making a fool of himself? Was swimming in the dark with a potentially murderous man a wise idea?

He ignored his own thoughts and waded out into the sea. The water was marvellously warm, and Silver allowed himself to sink into it, to let it lift him and soothe his tired limbs. Very briefly, his mind went blank at the sheer pleasure of bathing.

Then Flint swam up beside him, not overly close, but Silver could feel the quiet question in his eyes. Silver hadn't misread the situation at all; both relief and trepidation filled his chest. He gave Flint a look, a smile, an invitation, and Flint moved closer, hands lightly brushing along Silver's waist. God, they were good hands, hot and strong and surprisingly gentle.

Their lips met, wet and salty. They brushed together lightly at first, and Silver could hear the jagged, shuddering breaths Flint was drawing, as though he were suffocating with repressed need. Then he drew Silver closer by his waist and kissed him deeper. Silver couldn't help moaning as Flint's tongue brushed against his, couldn't help wrapping his arms around Flint's neck and kissing him wantonly.

They drifted in the water, half walking on the sandy seabed, half floating, bodies sliding together in a delightful grind. Flint was rock hard against Silver's thigh; his burning mouth left kisses and likely bruises in its wake down Silver's throat. Then Flint's deft fingers wrapped around Silver's cock, drawing more moans from him as he stroked him expertly. This must be heaven, Silver thought: drifting weightlessly, pressed against a warm, strong body, teetering at the edge of climax.

Silver found himself lying beneath Flint on the wet sand, devouring Flint's lips, swallowing his breath. The water still covered their legs, the waves lapping up to Silver's waist and drawing back again, their movement somehow matching the way Flint rubbed his cock against Silver's, surging back and forth in long languid movements. It was too much, it was so fucking good. When Flint squeezed both their cocks together in his hand, Silver lost every last shred of control. He came like a wave crashing onto the shore, bucking into Flint's hand, moaning and gasping and shuddering beneath him. Flint followed with a barely repressed whine, his seed spilling hot on Silver's stomach, his lips still covering Silver's mouth.

When Silver's mind cleared from its haze, he found Flint still braced over him, forehead pressed against his, cock softening against Silver's belly. A small smile quirked Flint's lip even as he heaved for breath, and Silver's chest filled with a strange glow.

“Do you know,” Silver murmured, voice still shaky, “that I left some oil at your hut.”

Flint raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Are you suggesting we use to…?”

“To fuck?” Silver asked, loving the way Flint's eyes widened at the word. “Yes.” He grinned. “If that would please you.”

Flint merely bent his head to kiss him again.

Silver spent the following days in Flint's hut. He'd expected to be dismissed the moment morning dawned, but Flint never suggested it. He never asked Silver to stay either – not with words, anyhow. His hands, his lips, Flint's whole body all begged Silver to stay a little longer. When the barkeep had dared to interrupt them, Flint had told him to fuck off and get compensation from his quartermaster. And to keep the food and drink coming, bless him.

But all good things had to come to an end, and on the morning after Christmas, Flint's quartermaster – Mr Gates, as Silver had learned in one of the few moments where they weren't either fucking or sleeping – called through the hut door that the Walrus was ready to leave.

“Vane's ship is coming in,” Gates said. “We don't want to be around his crew in a place like this unless we want to start a war.”

Flint had heaved a heavy sigh and readied himself to go, and Silver had resigned himself to going back to the drudgery of working at the club. There were worse jobs, under worse climes, and yet his heart throbbed dully in his chest all the same.

“Thank you,” Flint said, soft fingers tilting Silver's downcast head up. He pressed a kiss to his lips.

“You're welcome to come back anytime you like, Captain,” Silver said, fighting his own face to keep his grin from twisting downwards and his eyes from welling up.

Flint must have caught the look on Silver's face, though, because his brows crumpled into a sad little frown.

“Jim?” Gates called out gruffly.

“What?!” Flint snarled at him, back to the furious person he'd been when Silver had first seen him on Plunder Island.

“You know, we need a new cook. Killick wants to stay here and learn how to make El Pollo Diablo at the tavern.”

Flint grunted. “What the fuck's that?”

“Local speciality. He's obsessed with it.”

“So?” Flint bit out.

Although Silver had no evidence of it, he was certain that Mr Gates was rolling his eyes on the other side of that door. He could practically _hear_ it.

“We need a new cook, Jim,” Mr Gates repeated in an exaggeratedly slow and patient tone. “That's all I'm saying.”

Flint seemed nonplussed until his eyes fell on Silver. Silver smiled at him and raised his eyebrows hopefully. He'd understood what Gates had been getting at the moment he'd mentioned a vacancy on the _Walrus_.

“How good a cook are you?” Flint asked, his gruff tone clashing with the colour rising in his face and the softness in his eyes.

“I can peel potatoes. And I'm pretty good at preparing chicken,” Silver said with a grin.

“It's all right, Hal,” Flint called out. “I think I've found someone to replace him.”

“Fucking Hallelujah,” Gates growled through the door.

Silver said nothing, but wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment.


End file.
